


Not A Word

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 3x1 - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, POV Multiple, Plot What Plot, Snuggling, loopy bellamy, loopy clarke, seriously just silly fluff, they say the darndest things, wayyy in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Clarke and Bellamy voice some interesting thoughts while under some form of anesthesia, and one time they don't need a drug to speak their mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Word

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this ridiculous fluffy thing solely to escape the stress that’s taken over my life in the past week. Even though it's pretty silly, I figured I would share :) it’s the usual, canon verse ish, wayyyy in the future or something. hope you enjoy!

I.  
Bellamy races through the halls, pushing past anyone in his path. His heart's pounding; his hands are clammy. Behind him, Monty’s calling his name repeatedly, but he ignores it, not stopping until he's reached the empty infirmary. His head swivels about until he spots blonde hair at the back of the room.

“Bellamyyy!” Clarke throws her arms in the air with a decidedly un-Clarke cheer, while Abby and Raven look on, alternately amused and concerned.

Confused, he strides forward. Clarke's expression doesn't dim a single bit.

“What's going on? Monty said you were hurt?” 

_“I said,_ Clarke is in medical getting checked out,” Monty announces, having caught up, albeit bent double and out of breath. “ You took off before I could explain the rest.”

The snort in the corner is definitely Raven. Even Abby’s mouth is twisted oddly as she fiddles with something on the table, and it takes Bellamy a moment to realize she's trying not to smile. His neck heats up with embarrassment.

 _“Bell-ah-meeee,”_ Clarke sings again, swinging her legs. Still puzzled, and starting to get nervous, Bellamy inches closer, brushing her hair aside in what's become a natural motion now. Her eyes aren't quite focusing on him; her smile is too wide, too… loopy.

“Is she drugged?” He asks her mom. 

Abby nods. “That pain she's had all week in her jaw? Tooth infection. I need to pull it.”

He grimaces. “Shouldn't she be knocked out?” 

“Not necessarily,” Abby starts to explain, only to bat Clarke’s hands away from the instruments on the table. “I’m the doctor right now,” she says gently. Clarke pouts, though it only lasts for two seconds before she’s smiling at Bellamy again.

Raven appears at his shoulder with a wry grin. “Seems like our fearless leader helped herself to the wrong dose. So now she's just very, _very_ happy.”

“Friendssss,” Clarke declares, throwing her arms around them both. Abby steadies her before she falls off the cot. Tentatively, Bellamy pats her shoulder while Raven gives her an affectionate smack on the cheek and slips out of her grip. Which just leaves Clarke holding onto Bellamy, her cheek smashed against his jacket and arms like a vise around his torso. He tries to draw back, only to have her mumble _no_ and increase her grip.

“Um,” he clears his throat and looks around at the other clearly entertained faces. “A little help?”

“You seem to be doing just fine,” Raven drawls, walking over to Monty. Her limp is still noticeable, but she's done so much rigorous therapy after the second surgery, pushed herself so hard that it's just another part of her now. She slings her arm around Monty’s shoulder. “Come on. Let's see if we can cook up some extra-special moonshine to make Clarke _really_ happy tonight.”

They turn to go, making no effort to quiet their sniggering over his current state. Bellamy levels a glare at their backs. When he looks down, Clarke has her head tilted up, quizzical.

“You have beautiful bone structure,” she comments.

“I— what?”

She lifts a hand to trace his cheek, leaving him speechless. “Beautiful bone structure,” she says firmly, then tilts his chin towards Abby. “Doesn’t he, mom?”

“He does,” Abby agrees, rather generously.

Bellamy is kind of loving this new side of Clarke, so when it becomes clear Abby isn't kicking him out, he maneuvers himself onto the cot, loosening Clarke’s grip enough that she's just leaning heavily against him, her hand wrapped tightly in his.

“So how long before this wears off?” He asks Abby.

“Just a couple hours. I didn’t really need to knock her out for a simple tooth extraction. Normally I’d let her go back to work right away,” Abby explains. “But it looks like she skipped breakfast again, and I think the dose just kicked in more than I expected. She’ll likely sleep a little bit and then be back to herself.”

Bellamy frowns down at the girl beside him. “I gave her an apple and two protein bars this morning.”

“Daya was still hungry,” Clarke mumbles into his jacket, and he sighs, unconsciously rubbing her shoulder.

“I told you to send them to me if that happens. You don’t eat enough as it is,” he scolds.

“What, so you can just give them your portion instead? Noooope,” she slurs. “I have a hard enough time forcing food into you,” she pokes him. Even drugged, she manages to argue. How very Clarke of her.

He shakes his head, both adoring and exasperated all at once. “Got anything stronger?” He asks Abby, grinning.

She cracks a smile at that, then produces an unfriendly-looking piece of medical equipment. “Alright, I think now is the perfect time to get this over with.”

Bellamy gulps, suddenly aware of Clarke essentially curling herself further against him. He’s seen a lot of shit, but right now he’s not entirely sure he can stomach seeing a tooth being ripped from Clarke’s mouth, anesthetic or not. Abby notices his expression instantly and grasps her daughter’s shoulder.

“Honey, can you sit up for me? It’ll be easier this way.”

Clarke, always wanting to help, sits up ramrod straight and faces her mother. Bellamy keeps a hold of her hand, determinedly studying the cot while Abby leans in.

“Bellamy,” she says casually, “I think Clarke would love to hear one of your stories.” 

It’s become somewhat of a routine now. Abby often finds them together in the evenings, Clarke hanging onto his every word as he recounts another old tale. 

Now he smiles at the back of Clarke’s head as she nods furiously and pulls on their joined hands. As Abby tilts her face and leans in, Bellamy stares back down at the linens, deciding on the story of Calypso. The words tumble out of his mouth without much prompting; it’s easier to try to remember the next plot point instead of what’s happening right next to him.

Thankfully, it’s all over quickly, and as soon as the _plink_ reaches his ears, he glances up to see Abby covering a small bowl and handing Clarke a cup of water.

“Rinse,” she says, and her daughter obediently shuffles to the corner while Bellamy tries not to laugh. Clarke’s behavior isn’t much different from when she’s drunk—meaning she’s downright adorable.

“Alright,” he stands with a sigh. “I should get back. Kane’s expecting me on patrol later—”

“No!” Clarke whips around, stomping her foot petulantly.

He and Abby trade a glance. “No?”

“No,” she says again, and plops down on the cot, scooting back to sit against the wall and pointedly smacking the spot beside her. At a loss, Bellamy looks to her mother, who merely shrugs, then back at Clarke, who hits the cot again. “Stay,” she orders.

“Clarke, I have to—”

“I don’t like it when you’re gone,” she blurts out, and he forgets what he was saying entirely. Rather dumbfounded, all he can do is stare. Even Abby is silent beside him. Folding her arms, Clarke huffs and frowns at her lap. “I don’t like it when you’re gone,” she repeats quietly.

When Bellamy finally snaps out of his daze and removes his rifle, he catches Abby's mouth flickering at the corners. Clarke, meanwhile, is positively beaming as he edges on to the cot. She reaches out and yanks on his hand, urging him closer until he’s forced to raise his arm altogether and let her snuggle underneath. He can’t help the tiny sigh that escapes him, nor does he fight the urge to stroke her hair, threading his fingers through the strands. Her soft snores fill the air just minutes later.

He looks up to find Abby watching them with something like fondness. “Um,” he fumbles, “will you tell Kane—”

“I’ll tell him you’re looking after my daughter,” she says, and it makes him straighten even as she leaves them alone in the med bay.

Looking back down at Clarke, he smiles to himself and rests his cheek atop her hair, settling in for his own nap.

When Clarke does awaken over an hour later, sore but otherwise coherent, she doesn’t try to untangle their limbs, but looks more than a little apprehensive.

“You stayed,” she murmurs.

“You asked me to,” he replies, and her brow pinches in thought.

“I did? Oh.” Now she's definitely not looking at him. “I didn’t, uh— sorry, I don’t remember much after mom took that needle out. Did I say anything else?”

Bellamy decides maybe some things can live in his memories for now. “Not a word.”

 

II.  
Clarke rinses her hands for the third time that afternoon, scraping the sponge over her knuckles until the only redness is from her own raw skin, and not his blood. She looks over at the cot again.

Bellamy lies on his back, fast asleep, only his shoulders peeking out from under the gray blanket she’d thrown overtop him an hour earlier. She’d told herself it was because he might get cold—not because she couldn’t bear to see the stitches that criss-crossed his abdomen, the way his chest stuttered now and then and nearly seized her own breath with it.

“He should be awake by now.” Her mother’s voice isn’t judgmental, just curious, but it grates anyways.

“Probably just the anesthetic,” Clarke mumbles, and turns to scrub her hands again. 

Her mother grasps her elbow. “Enough, Clarke. There’s no more blood. It’s all gone. You made sure of that.”

Clarke closes her eyes against the images again; she’s not ready to relive that. Not yet. Not until he wakes up and glares at her for wasting so much moonshine on him or decides to try to move too soon like the stubborn idiot he is. She needs him to wake up.

Heavy footsteps echo in the entrance. “Still nothing?” Kane asks.

She shakes her head, twisting her hands together so he won’t see them shake. “It might be a while longer.”

“The anesthetic usually wears off by now,” Abby wonders out loud.

Not looking at either of them, Clarke admits, “Maybe I gave him a little extra.”

“Clarke—”

“I couldn’t do it,” Clarke interrupts, willing her voice not to crack. “I couldn’t listen to him screaming anymore _and_ stitch him up, okay?”

Her mother’s sympathy is almost too much, but then Kane rests a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That was good of you,” he says, kinder than she deserves. “He needs the extra rest anyways. Especially if he insists on bossing everyone around again soon.”

Clarke offers a weak smile in thanks, then heads for the cabinets. “He’ll wake up. And when he does we’ll need extra bandages, probably more thread, too, because he’ll pull his stitches trying to do too much too fast. So,” she keeps her voice brisk, “we should do inventory. And Lincoln said there’s a special plant we can use for the poultice, to help the skin heal faster.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Kane says. “We’ll send a group out for it right away.”

“I’ll check the storage room for more supplies,” her mother offers.

Clarke waits until they’ve both left, then grips the counter until her knuckles turn white, forcing one unsteady breath after another. Finally she turns to look at Bellamy’s prone form. He looks almost peaceful, such a marked change from just hours before when they’d carried him in here, his face twisted in anguish. For a solid minute, Clarke had been unable to process anything other than panic, and after that she’d done everything she could to push that same panic down, down, until she was sure she’d done her job and kept him alive. 

Now the panic’s returning. Her feet carry her over to his cot without a second thought. She smoothes back the damp curls at his temple, strokes her thumb over his cheek like she’s never dared to do before. Soon she’s forgotten all about the inventory, simply sitting on the stool at his bedside and pressing her forehead to the back of his hand.

At some point she falls asleep, and when she wakes it’s because someone’s caressing _her_ cheek, a finger outlining her jaw before she jerks up and sees Bellamy’s eyes, wide open and fixed on her. A strangled noise emanates from the back of her throat, and then Clarke’s on her feet, leaning over him worriedly.

“Are you okay? Is it— are you hurting? Where’s the pain?”

His hand closes around hers where she’s cradling his cheek. The edges of his mouth curl into a startlingly joyful grin.

“Clarke,” he says delightedly, and she has no idea how to respond to that. Bellamy lifts her hand off his cheek to lace their fingers together. “Hey you.” 

Her brow creases. “Bellamy, what—” She pauses, catching sight of the IV line in his arm, hooked up to the bag beside his cot, the liquid dripping at a steady rate. Thinks back to the extra dose she gave him to knock him out. Suddenly it makes sense. All this medication for hours, without an ounce of food too, since he probably handed off his rations, being the compassionate idiot he is—his head must be cloudier than ever.

“Bellamy,” she says slowly, “what do you feel right now?”

“I feel… floaty,” he says, then frowns. “Like I’m floating. Is that right?”

“Sure,” she says, because why not. “Anything else?”

His teeth flash in a sweet grin once more. “Just happy to see you.”

“Right back at you,” she murmurs. Her heart aches at the pure affection in his features. His thumb is brushing over her knuckles in a maddening pattern. Combine that with the sight of his smile, and it’s hard to focus. 

Bellamy tugs on her hand. “Why so worried?”

“You’re sure there’s no pain, right?”

He shakes his head side to side, then leans up a little, concern crossing his features. “Are _you_ in pain?”

“No,” she answers, trying desperately not to smile. “I’m not in pain, Bellamy.”

“Good,” he sighs, his head dropping back down. “I don't have the energy to go beat up anyone.”

Clarke laughs a little and swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “That won't be necessary.”

He hums, turning thoughtful. “I don’t like it when you’re in pain.”

She leans down to touch her forehead to his for a moment. “I don’t like it when you’re in pain, either.”

Before she can pull away, Bellamy’s hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. His nose brushes hers. She’s not sure which one of them sighs, but her eyes drift shut anyways, savoring his warm breath on her cheek and the very lively pulse under her fingertips. When his chest begins to rise and fall calmly, she looks up. Bellamy’s eyes are closed and he’s out cold again.

She pulls the blanket over him once more and settles down on her stool. By the time Bellamy wakes next, she’s mixed a healthy amount of paste with Lincoln’s herbs and is laying out extra strips of cloth.

“Holy Jesus.” His groan echoes off the walls. “Please tell me someone kicked that Grounder’s ass.”

Clarke presses at his shoulders, warning him not to sit up yet. “Harper shot him in the leg,” she says. “And Octavia made sure he’ll never be able to reproduce.”

Bellamy’s laugh is feeble, but it’s a laugh all the same, and she smiles, thinking, _I never want to be the cause of your pain again._

 

III.  
Bellamy blinks against the drowsiness, forcing himself to raise his head. His neck protests the motion, vehemently, and he winces. Yeah, sleeping at this angle had done him zero favors, but with Clarke’s condition he hadn’t really cared—

Clarke.

He sits up to find her blue eyes locked on him, exhausted but definitely awake. Her hand squeezes his again, reminds him why he woke up in the first place. Thanking every deity he can think of, Bellamy scrambles closer on the bedroll.

“Hey. Welcome back.”

“What—” She croaks, then coughs, and he grabs the cup of water he’d set aside, curling a hand under her neck to lift her head while she sips it slowly. “What happened?” She manages to whisper.

“You don’t remember anything?” 

“Just… pain. A lot of pain.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And you… you were telling me it would be okay.” She shifts, like she wants to move closer, then looks down in surprise at the stiff wrappings on her torso, and the extra rolled-up blankets they purposely put on her other side, to keep her from moving too much. Bellamy stretches out beside her, a hand on her arm.

“No sitting, not yet,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” she agrees. Her nose wrinkles. “My head feels funny.”

“It's the meds. Your mom had to give you a lot.”

“What happened?”

He takes a minute, hoping his voice won’t break. He’s doing his best not to relive it too deeply. “I found you in here earlier. You were curled in a ball, holding your side.” That’s the simple version. He’s never going to forget the gasping breaths, the sharp cries, the near death grip she had on his shirt while her tears soaked into his skin.

Bellamy shakes his head, pushing those thoughts away and focusing on Clarke beside him, tired but alive. “That pain in your side from two days ago? You thought it was from the fight with the hill clan, remember?” She nods, eyes widening. “It was your appendix, Clarke. Your mom had to remove it.”

“My appendix?” She asks in disbelief. 

“Yeah.” He drops his head to the mat. “Something about it being burst, or almost burst… I don’t know. She said a lot of things… I wasn’t really paying attention.” He’d been too busy holding Clarke’s head in his lap while they waited for the heavy dose of anesthetic to kick in, wishing it would hurry up and _work_ already so she’d stop shuddering so hard.

Clarke’s hand finds his again, their fingers tangling. He sighs. “You scared the hell out of me, Clarke.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, nosing his shoulder. Bellamy can tell the medicine’s still affecting her, because she’s never this touchy-feely otherwise. Not with him. He kind of hates that it’s the only way they ever touch for longer than a few seconds, but—that’s a stupid thing to care about, when only hours ago he just wanted to see her open her eyes. 

Eventually she asks, “How long was I out?”

“A few hours. Your mom said you have to stay on bedrest for at least another day.” Bellamy glares when she opens her mouth to protest. “I’m to enforce the doctor’s orders by any means necessary,” he says pointedly. 

Clarke surprises him by giggling. “What, you gonna handcuff me again?” She pokes him in the chest, her grin widening when he covers his face with a groan.

“Don’t tempt me, princess,” he mutters.

Another giggle. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He peers through one eye. “Depends how much you piss me off.”

“Hush,” she says, and clings to his whole arm, snuggling close. “You like me too much.” 

Bellamy grins up at the slats that criss-cross the roof of the cabin. “Confident, are we?”

Her answering hum is full of contentment, and when he looks down she’s clearly getting groggy but trying to fight it off. Soothing his free hand over her hair, he searches his brain for a story. “Did I ever tell you about Halcyon? She was the daughter of Aeolus, commander of the winds…”

Clarke’s body relaxes further by the minute, and even when he starts yawning, he keeps going, hoping to lull her back to sleep. He meant what he said—he’s determined for her to get some rest, as much as she might resist. She deserves the break, and honestly, he kind of needs it for his sanity too.

“Their names are so _interesting,”_ Clarke interrupts sleepily. Bellamy’s caught off guard by the sudden shift, but also curious to see where this might go. Her eyes remain closed, but her mouth is quirked to one side in thought.

When he can’t stand it any longer, he asks, “Whose names?” 

“Halcyon. Persephone. Calypso. Yours too,” she adds with a yawn. “Bellamy, Octavia, _Aurora,”_ she ticks off each on her fingers. Hearing his mom’s name come out of Clarke’s mouth does a strange thing to his heart.

Then Clarke turns sullen, sticking out her bottom lip and raising her eyes to his. “We’re so boring. Clarke. Abby. _Pike,”_ she glowers, and Bellamy can’t help but laugh. She looks oddly pleased at that.

“Clarke,” he murmurs, “the last thing I'd ever call you is _boring.”_

She peeks up through her lashes, the edges of her mouth curling shyly before she turns her face into the pillow. He's so taken that it's a full minute before he realizes she's blushing, and _wow,_ okay, add that to the list of things he really wants to see again in this lifetime.

Not wanting her to withdraw entirely, he nudges her shoulder with a grin. “Besides, I can't really see you agreeing to stay in a cave your whole life until marriage like Halycon.”

Clarke holds up her fists in mock battle, her teeth bared. “Just _try,”_ she dares. He laughs louder this time. It's hard not to be charmed by this Clarke. When his laughter fades, he catches that satisfied look in her eyes again.

“What?” 

“I like it when you laugh,” she says softly. “You don’t do it enough.” The last part is a whispered afterthought, almost to herself.

Bellamy’s not really sure what to do with that, how to respond when his heart feels so suddenly full. So he just pats her hand and says, “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t fight me on the bedrest tomorrow and I’ll laugh all you want. Okay?”

“Mmkay,” she mumbles, already drifting off. 

He resumes his story more quietly, smiling to himself when her soft, rhythmic snores sound in the darkness. His dreams are filled with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and yeah, that's definitely not boring at all.

 

IV.  
Bellamy wakes up much earlier than she expects.

Clarke is in the midst of hovering over him, unable to stop herself adjusting the bandages on his shoulder, when his eyes flutter. Frozen in gratitude, she watches him blink as long strands of her hair tickle his cheek. There’s a moment of confusion on his part, and then his eyes dart around to take in their surroundings, recognition flaring as he remembers how he got here. He still looks drained, probably from whatever medicine Jackson gave him to dull the pain before starting in on the stitches and resetting the bone.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, and it sounds more like a sigh than anything else.

“Hey,” she smiles weakly. “We have to stop meeting like this.” 

His face splits into a lopsided grin. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She snorts, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay. “You keep saying that, except _you’re_ the one who always ends up on this table.” _And that means I’m not okay._

“Better me than you,” Bellamy murmurs.

Clarke is taken aback. “Do you really believe that?” she asks softly.

He winces, and whether it’s from pain or having let his thoughts slip she’s not sure. “Um—”

“It’s not _better_ that you’re lying on this table, Bellamy,” she interrupts, and her voice is dipping all over the place and Bellamy can clearly see what a wreck she is because he reaches his good arm up to grasp her shoulder.

“Hey. I knew you’d take care of me.” His crooked grin is back. “Could you imagine if it was reversed? You’d be so screwed.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Stop pretending you’re expendable.” She means it as a joke, but when he just shrugs and looks away, she grabs his hand so hard he might have a bone bruise the next day. “I’m serious, Bellamy. You are _not_ expendable. Not to Kane, not to Octavia, not to anyone. Especially not to me. Got it?”

She’s shaking his arm pointedly with each word, nearly on the verge of tears again, and it makes his eyes widen as he squeezes her hand back with equal force before encouraging her head to rest on his shoulder. 

“Okay, Clarke,” he says tiredly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Biting her cheek, Clarke tries to get it together, allowing herself an extra second to bask in his strong heartbeat. She rises quickly, but Bellamy doesn’t let her go far, his eyes still worried when they latch onto hers.

She’s about to tell him to rest when he leans up and presses his lips to hers. She hears herself gasp, nearly pulls back in surprise, but Bellamy’s hand is curled at the nape of her neck and his lips are inviting her to stay, and _god_ does she want to. Before she can even try to reciprocate though, Bellamy’s head drops to the cot again, his brow creased in obvious pain. 

Grabbing a clean rag, she dunks it in cold water and lays it over his forehead, gratified by the relieved sigh that leaves him.

“Better?” She asks. He nods, eyes fluttering. “Good.” 

Stubborn as he is, he still tries to speak again, but she shushes him quietly. “Sleep, Bellamy.” He mumbles something incoherent, the pain clearly taking over, and she brushes her hand over his hair and hums softly until he’s out cold.

~~~~~~~~~

Thirty minutes later, her lips still tingling, Clarke finds her mother with Jackson going over the next supply run. “What did you give him?” She asks.

“What? Who?”

“Bellamy. What did you give him for the pain?” Clarke crosses her arms. “He’s acting funny.”

Her mother looks at Jackson, who shakes his head in the negative. “I didn’t give him anything.”

Clarke is sure she’s heard wrong. “Are you kidding?”

Jackson shrugs helplessly. “Nobody knew what was on the blade the Grounders used. We couldn’t risk the the meds reacting with whatever might be in his system. The only other option we had was that pill, the one that made him sick for days afterwards. Of course he refused it.” He swallows. “Look, Clarke, he blacked out long before we did the hard stuff. Seriously. He wasn’t awake for that.”

“I believe you,” she assures, patting his arm. “But… so… he’s not medicated at all?”

They both shake their heads again. Her mom steps closer. “Clarke, is everything okay?”

Clarke forces herself to nod. “Yeah. Yes. It’s fine. I just, um, I need to go check on another patient.”

She manages to keep her steps steady until she turns the corner, and then she’s running. By the time she reaches the infirmary, Bellamy’s awake again, having pushed himself into a seated position. He’s examining the cast that encases his left arm from elbow to wrist, frowning at the limited movement of the sling. For a second Clarke can’t think about anything except how exquisite his mouth felt against hers.

Of course that's the moment he looks up. Thankfully he's preoccupied with the sling as she approaches. “Is this really necessary?”

“You fractured your wrist,” she replies automatically.

“It itches.”

She bats his hand away. “Don’t scratch. There’s a cream here somewhere.” Finding the small tube in one of the cabinets, she comes back to stand between his legs, carefully applying the salve around the edges of the cast. She’s hyper-aware of his gaze on her, the way his free hand taps on his thigh and his knee occasionally knocks into her leg, jittery. Her heart is all but slamming against her ribcage, pleading with her to just _look up,_ close the gap and ask questions later.

When she’s done, she puts the tube aside but doesn’t try to move away, noting the bob of his throat as she raises her eyes to his.

“Bellamy.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you do it?”

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

Clarke folds her arms. “You know what.” When he continues to stare blankly, she chews her lip and feels her courage slipping. “Look, I know you weren’t drugged or anything. Before. So why— why did you kiss me?”

He looks mildly terrified, which only confirms her suspicions that he assumed she wouldn’t bring it up, but the reminder of his mouth against hers makes her press on.

“Did you do it because you were in pain— or were you trying to comfort me somehow...or— well, why?”

“I—” Bellamy still looks panicked, like he might be gauging an escape route. Nervewracked, Clarke begins to wonder if she never should have brought it up. She tries to back away, give him space to think—only to have his knees tighten, locking her in place as his hand closes around hers. Something’s shifted in Bellamy’s expression when she looks back up. He sets his jaw in challenge. 

“I did it because I wanted to.”

Now Clarke feels like _she_ might be drugged, she’s floating so high.

“Good,” she manages, and his shocked expression is last thing she sees before she drags his head down. This time it’s Bellamy who gasps into her mouth, and she’s nowhere near as hesitant as he was, her tongue seeking out his in mere seconds and sighing when it makes his hand tighten on her waist.

The bite of her teeth on his lower lip snaps him out of his haze, and then he’s sliding his good arm around her back, trying to haul her onto the cot even while kissing her back with everything he’s got. She scrambles on and settles right in his lap, her mouth curving at the groan that rumbles from his chest. She murmurs her approval against his lips, pressing even closer.

When they come up for air, Bellamy looks ten kinds of beautiful and Clarke thinks she might be losing her mind. 

“That was because I wanted to,” she says breathlessly, and when Bellamy smiles she sees the whole world in it. She leans in to kiss him again, only to halt just seconds later at his grunt of pain. “What? What is it? Did I—”

He pulls her close, his mouth easing over hers in a caress. “All these years, and you _would_ decide to kiss me on the day I can only use one arm,” he accuses hoarsely.

Clarke blinks, then laughs and hugs him close, nipping at his earlobe. “Can’t make it too easy on you.”

He pinches her side, swallowing her affronted squeak in a slow and simmering kiss. “I think we’ll manage,” he whispers against her neck, and she’s wracked by a full-bodied shiver. 

She’s one thousand percent ready to take him up on that when a tiny cough echoes behind them, and they both startle and straighten up. Monty’s standing in the entrance, a hand obediently over his eyes. His mouth fights a smile.

“Kane’s asking to see you in the mess hall, Clarke. When you have a moment.”

Bellamy drops his head to her shoulder with a soft laugh while she sighs at the ceiling. “I’ll be there soon,” she says, resigned. Monty nods, eyes still covered, and hurries off. Clarke cards her fingers through Bellamy’s inky curls, dropping apologetic kisses along his cheek and neck. "Okay," she sighs. "I should go." 

"No."

"Bellamy—" Her words get lost in his mouth as he draws her into a heated kiss that leaves her lightheaded and loose-limbed. Before she knows it, he's shifting on the cot and all she can do is cling to his shoulder with a squeak, breathlessly scolding him to _be careful._ Then it's _her_ back against the wall and Bellamy at her front, the air stolen right from her lungs at the mischief glimmering in his dark eyes.

“I’ve been waiting years,” he says with a defiant grin. “Kane can wait a few more minutes.”

Clarke can find absolutely no fault in that logic.


End file.
